Army of Two: Attrition
by Mercstouch
Summary: Corporal Tyson Rios struggles to survive in the Nazi infested forests of Belgium during the Battle of the Bulge, where he forms a peculiar bond with a stranger that saved his life. World War II AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Walloon Region, Belgium 1944**

The squad of Army Rangers solemnly trudged through the Ardennes forest, tugging their worn boots free from the frost covered underbrush that clawed at them with every step. Corporal Tyson Rios plowed through the snow at the end of the pack. He situated the strap of the M2 carbine hitched over his shoulder, and blinked his sleep deprived eyes that stung from the frigid December wind blowing through the towering trees.

It had been three weeks since the members of the 5th Ranger Battalion had entered enemy territory, and morale was running low for the weathered group. They had already witnessed numerous firefights, and had lost four men to Nazi bullets, a significant number for a group so small in a war so big. Rios sighed, dug into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out his leather wallet. Opening the billfold, he smiled at the black and white photograph of a dark-skinned woman beaming inside. He flipped over the picture and examined the note scribed in cursive he had read a hundred times over.

Love you always and forever.

-Sam

"Alright, lover-boy," a voice called from the front. "Enough with the photo. Don't wanna take a round to the back because you were too busy ogling at your lady."

"Ah, can it, Harper," another man replied. "You're just jealous you don't got yourself a lady back home."

"Yeah, right, Coons. I got all the ladies I need right here," Harper chuckled as he patted the pin-up magazine stuffed in his back pocket. Rios rolled his eyes and tucked the photograph and wallet back into his trouser pocket, then lifted the tattered wool scarf up over his nose.

"Will you all pipe down?" an older man at the front of the squad snapped. "Whole daddy-blamed German army'll hear ya."

"Sorry, Top," another answered. "Old chrome-dome here's just-"

A shot was fired and the man fell to the ground, the wound in his head forming a crimson puddle in the snow around him.

"Shit!" Harper screamed. Rios jumped over top of the other and they fell to the ground. He peered up from the snow to see their sergeant barking orders telling the others to take cover, but his cries were barely heard over the roaring gunfire. The older man slid behind a tree, and took the rifle slung over his shoulder into his hands. When the woods became silent and the shots ceased, he spun around from behind the tree and took aim, only to take a shot to the chest. The man cried out, then fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

"Top!" Coons yelled from behind the cover of a shallow embankment. The frightened man unholstered the M1911 pistol from his hip and crawled on all fours to the top of the mound. Rios quietly rolled off of Harper, and the two crept to Coons side behind the embankment.

"I-I don't see 'em," Harper stuttered frantically. "I don't see 'em."

"Quiet," Rios hushed him, unslinging the rifle from his shoulder. He looked to Coons, but the man shook his head and shrugged. Out of nowhere, another shot fired, and the man's back exploded. He shouted, then went limp and slid down the mound. Rios cursed under his breath and spun around onto his back, darting his eyes across the landscape for the assailants. Harper sobbed quietly by his side, loading a clip into his pistol with shaking hands. A slight movement caught Rios eye, and he looked to his right to see a small, round object roll across the snow and slow to a stop at their feet.

"Shit, grenade!" Rios shouted, tugging the other man to his feet. The two bolted only a few feet before the explosive detonated, and the men were thrown to the ground. Rios groaned and through lidded eyes looked to Harper, whose corpse looked back at him with a blank, bloody countenance. The world around him soon grew cloudy, and within seconds everything went black.

Rios fluttered his eyes open, and moaned in pain. His whole body ached and a ruthless throbbing pulsed in his head. He found himself unable to move, and looked down in confusion at the thick ropes that bound his body in a sitting position to the rough bark of a tree. He looked back up to see six German soldiers sitting casually around a weak bonfire, rummaging through the deceased squad's belongings. One of the soldiers noticed that Rios had awoken, and tapped an adjacent man's shoulder to alert him. The larger of the group stood, and made his way toward the captured American, a smug grin spreading across his lips. He jeeringly shook the pin-up magazine Harper had carried with him and chuckled something in German, then the others laughed at the remark. The larger tossed the magazine to one of his comrades, then turned back to Rios and landed a hard punch to his cheek.

"Bastards," Rios growled. The man touched his index finger and thumb together, making an "okay" symbol, and again the others laughed hysterically. He sauntered back to his place by the fire a few feet away, and the men returned to their small talk.

Rios sighed. He checked his bonds once more, but escape was impossible. They had stripped him of his knife and weapons, as well as his boots. He looked around the encampment and saw his fellow Rangers lying side by side in an orderly row. They, too, were missing items of clothing. Harper lay closest to him, and Rios shook his head in grief as the man's dead eyes stared back at him.

Hours passed and the sun began to set on the forest. The Nazi soldiers gathered close to the smoldering flames, and poked at the burning embers, coaxing the fire to grow. Rios watched from a distance, shivering violently in the cold. He tried to distract himself by thinking of home, of his warm apartment in Brooklyn, of Samantha's shoulders tucked under his arm as they watched Casablanca at the local cinema. He held tightly to these memories, for they were the only things keeping him alive.

He was shaken from his thoughts when the soldiers let out frightened screams, and scrambled hurriedly in all directions. Then, an explosion erupted, knocking them off their feet. The soldiers snatched up their weapons and spun around the encampment, looking desperately for their attacker. A shot was fired, and a cloud of misty blood burst from one of the Nazi's skulls, and he fell to the snow. Seconds later, another gunshot erupted from the dense forest, and another man fell.

The larger of the soldiers screamed furiously at the invisible enemy. Another shot to an adjacent man was his only answer. A snapping of twigs alerted them, and the larger barked at the last two soldiers that remained of his squad, motioning them toward the noise. The two swallowed thickly, then reluctantly stepped into the wood. Soon after, a gunshot and a cut-off scream echoed through the trees.

The last man looked frantically around the area, and called out to the attacker in furious German. He then turned to Rios and began shouting at him, but the threats were cut short when the man gasped, then crumpled face-down into the snow, a tomahawk jutting from his back.

Rios sat in stunned silence at the corpse laying at his feet. The trees and ferns at the edge of the encampment began to rustle, and a figure appeared from the wood. He was dressed head-to-tow in thick, tattered wool clothes, and donned a grey fur ushanka over his head. A scarf was pulled up over his nose, making his hazel eyes the only visible feature on his face. The stranger hitched his sniper rifle up over his shoulder and approached the dead Nazi at Rios' feet, where he tugged the hatchet loose from the corpse's back.

"Holy shit, would you get a load a that?" he said astonished. "I got him! That never happens."

The man hooked the weapon to his belt, then dismissed Rios and began digging through the dead soldiers' belongings. He plopped down by one and pulled off one of their boots. After placing it against the bottom of his own foot, he cursed and moved on to the next soldier. After two more tries, he found a pair that fit him and replaced his own riddled, torn boots with the new pair.

"You gonna untie me?" Rios grumbled through chattering teeth. The stranger plucked the pin-up magazine from one of the German's pockets and chuckled, before stuffing it inside his own trench coat.

"Don't know," he answered. "You a friendly?"

"I'm Corporal Tyson Rios of the 5th Ranger Battalion."

"Ranger? No shit. Me too," the man replied. "Oh, what do we have here?"

He picked up Rios' worn billfold from the snow and dusted it off, then opened it.

"Hey, sugar," he flirted, admiring the photograph inside. "You rationed?"

"That's mine," Rios growled. "Now untie me. I'm an American."

"Don't look it," the man argued.

"Are you some kind of idiot."

The stranger chuckled. "Yeah, you're American. Hold on, Tiny. Don't get your panties in wad."

He unsheathed a blade from his belt and knelt before Rios, then began slicing through the thick rope. When Rios was freed from his bonds, the other man tugged the boots off of the large soldier he had killed with the hatchet, and tossed the shoes to Rios.

"Looks like these'll fit ya," he said.

Rios scoffed. "They're mine. The bastard took 'em from me."

"Hey, take what you can get," the other replied. "Especially in a shit place like this. Here, you need it more than me."

The stranger pulled the ushanka from his head, revealing thick dark hair and bangs, and placed it over Rios' bald scalp.

"Thanks," Rios said. "You said you were Army?"

"Yeah, tubby," the man answered. He tugged the scarf off of his nose and down around his neck, divulging his young face daubed with light stubble. He offered Rios his hand and hauled him to his feet.

"Private First Class Elliot Salem. Boy, you are a big one."


	2. Chapter 2

Rios knelt down on one knee in front of Harper's corpse, and stared solemnly at the line of his fallen comrades that laid like refuse in the snow.

"We should get goin'," Salem advised, wiping a gloved finger under his red nose. "It's gettin' dark."

Rios ignored him. He took a hold of the crucifix necklace hanging around his neck and gave it a quick tug, snapping the silver chain. He then placed the necklace into Harper's hand, and cupped the other's stiff, cold fingers around it.

"Don't think that's gonna do him any good now," Salem said, anxiously looking around the area.

"Do you ever shut up?" Rios snapped. "These were good men. They deserved better than this."

Salem furrowed his brows, then approached the other man from behind. He hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder, attempting to console him.

"I'm sorry," he muttered sincerely. "But we really need to get outta here and back to my squad."

Rios looked up at him curiously. "You have a squad?"

"Yeah," Salem answered. "And we should get goin' before the sun sets. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck out here at night."

In the distance, a feral chorus of wolves' howls echoed and bounced off the trees, concealing the origin of the spine tingling cries.

"Please," Salem breathed, fearfully eying the edge of the clearing. Rios sighed and gave the fallen soldiers one last look before getting back to his feet. He then scooped up a rifle from the ground and hitched it over his shoulder.

"Lead the way," Rios grumbled. Salem flashed him a smile, then checked his compass before crossing the small clearing and entering the thick wood, Rios in tow.

"If you got a squad," Rios said, following the younger's footsteps through underbrush and fallen tree limbs. "Why are you out here alone?"

"They sent me out on a scouting mission," Salem answered proudly. "You know, secure the area and what not. I heard some shots, and went to check it out, then I found you. Oh, speaking of which..."

Salem dug the old billfold out of his trench coat pocket and placed it in the other's large hand with a grin. "You can have this back."

Rios gave him an amused look, then tucked the wallet back into his own trouser pocket. "They sent you out alone?"

"Well, yeah," Salem answered. "Why?"

Rios shrugged. "Just don't think it's safe to go alone."

"Safe doesn't exist in a place like this," Salem scoffed. "And I can take care a myself."

"I didn't say you couldn't," Rios argued. "That was some pretty good shooting you did back there."

Salem's cheeks reddened from the praised, and he was relieved he was in front so it went unseen.

"Where the hell did you get a tomahawk?" Rios continued.

"Ah, I just picked it up along the way, you know? Pick up a lot of stuff, like that nice hat you got on, and my boots."

"So, you're a scavenger?" Rios chuckled. "Like a little rat."

"Hey, I didn't hear the guys complainin'," Salem rebutted. "Dead aren't in much need of anything."

Rios nodded somberly. "Elliot?" he asked, attempting to change the subject. "That's what you said your name was, right?"

"Yep," Salem answered. "Or just Salem. Most everybody just calls me Salem."

"Hey, Elliot?"

"Yes, Tyson?" Salem asked smoothly. "Ugh, don't like that. Sounds too formal or something. Just Tyse from now on."

Rios chuckled. "Thanks for saving my ass back there. The bastards were gonna let me freeze to death over night. Woulda been a bad way to go."

"Ah, don't mention it," Salem replied. "Besides, you could still get shot and bleed out or somethin' later. We aren't out of the woods yet." He then chuckled lightly at his own pun, causing Rios to roll his eyes.

"How many are in your squad?" Rios asked as he watched Salem tread silently across the underbrush blanketed in snow, strategically placing his booted feet where the thicket wouldn't crunch and snap under his weight.

"Well," Salem began. "They're not all my squad. There's five, countin' me, but only three of us are Army. There's Dudley; he's from Lancaster. That's in England."

"I know where Lancaster is," Rios muttered.

"And there's a Frenchie named Darcy," Salem continued. "But he can't speak no English."

"You pick those guys up along the way, too?"

Salem shrugged. "Yeah, guess you could say that. But, hey, strength in numbers, right? Five guys is a hell of a lot better than three, if you ask me."

"Who are the Americans, then?" Rios inquired.

"There's Harris," Salem answered. "He's a specialist from the 761st Tank Battalion. I think he's a swell guy, but Bennett don't trust him much just because he's a negro."

Rios cocked an eyebrow. "I'm guessing Bennett's the other American."

"Yeah," Salem said with a hint of discomfort. "He's a staff sergeant, and the only guy from my real squad that made it. He's still the big cheese though, so everyone does what he says."

"Surprised an Englishman and a Frenchman would take orders from an American," Rios replied.

"Well, one time Darcy didn't give him his last cig, and Bennett broke two of his fingers," Salem explained solemnly. "So Darcy does what he says now. Everyone does."

"Christ," Rios said under his breath. He looked over to Salem, who walked a few feet ahead, and noticed he slightly favored his right leg.

"He ever hurt you?" Rios asked with concern.

Salem looked back over his shoulder at the big man, and chuckled with an undertone of anxiety.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I kinda had it comin' for being such a fuck-up. It's nothin'," the younger reassured. "Anyway, not to far now, Rios. Look."

He ran his gloved hand over the rough bark of a tree which had three deep gashes carved into the shape of an "s".

"We're almost there. Camp's just about a klick away."

The four men sat idly around the campfire in the center of the encampment, the flickering glow of the weak flame dancing across their wind-burned cheeks and the towering pine tress that encompassed the small clearing. One of the men looked up from the branch he whittled away with a pocket knife to see two men approaching, and only one he recognized.

"Oy, Benny," Dudley said in a thick British accent.

The man laying across from him rested against a canvas pack, his arms bent back behind his head and his worn army cap shielding his eyes.

"The hell do you want?" Bennett grumbled sleepily.

"Salem's back," Dudley answered.

The other sighed, exasperated. "Of course he is."

"And he's got someone with him."

Bennett ripped the cap off from over his face, and bolted to his feet. The other three stood as well, and watched as the youngest man and the stranger approached.

"Hey, fellas," Salem beamed. "You'll never guess what I did."

"Oh I got an idea," Bennett growled, lifting Salem inches off the ground by the flaps of his trench coat. "The fuck were you thinking bringing a stranger with you?!"

"It's okay. Tyse is a Ranger, like us," Salem defended, tugging at the large man's wrists in an attempt to escape his grasp.

"I don't give a rat's ass if he's the fuckin' Pope!" Bennett shouted furiously. "You brought another mouth to feed when we're already starving, you little shit!"

Bennett felt a firm grip on his arm, and looked up from Salem's fearful eyes to see the burly stranger squeezing down hard on his bicep.

"Put the kid down," Rios said sternly.

Bennett glared back menacingly into the other man eyes, which unlike most, met at the same height as his own. He roughly planted Salem back down onto the snowy ground, and the smaller stepped behind Rios, watching the enraged man warily.

"The hell are you?" Bennett snarled, scrutinizing the stranger.

"I'm Corporal Tyson Rios," he answered. "I'm a friend."

Bennett snorted. "Sure you are."

"You said you all were starving?" Rios asked, unhitching the bag from over his shoulder. "Me and Elliot picked up some supplies, and got some rations. Here."

Rios tossed him the heavy sack, which the man eyed suspiciously. Bennett dug through the bag, and pulled out a tin can labeled "C-ration" in plain, black letters. He looked back up at Rios, then scoffed and made his way back to the campfire.

"You can stay for the night," he grumbled. "But tomorrow, we'll see." He plopped down on a blanket spread out in front of the fire, then dug through the sack and began tossing the other men cans and paper packages of food, saving the largest ration pack for himself. After tossing a can of bean to Rios, Bennett fought back a smug grin and threw Salem a small, paper wrapped brick. Salem caught the package, and sighed disappointedly. Rios looked over to the younger man, and examined the brick, which read _U.S. Army Field Ration D. _

Rios shook his head in disgust. Field Ration D was the United States' government's poor excuse for a chocolate bar, which the soldiers unfortunate enough to have to eat appropriately dubbed "Hitler's Secret Weapon." The ration could withstand temperatures up to 120 degrees Fahrenheit without melting, and hard as a rock, requiring bits to be shaven off before eating to prevent fracturing a man's teeth. The big man looked down at his tin can, and sighed, then nudged Salem lightly with his elbow.

"Trade you," Rios said, flashing the other a smile.

A confused look came over Salem's face. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," Rios reassured. "Don't know why everyone complains about the stuff. I can't get enough."

Salem's eyes darted from the bar in his hands to the can of beans, then back before nodding in agreement and exchanging his ration for the silver can Rios offered.

"Good luck with that, big guy," he chuckled. "And thanks."

"Why the hell does mine have bloody German all over it?" Dudley asked, examining his package.

"Hey, mine does too," Harris added. "Where'd you get these, kid?"

"I was out scoutin' like Bennett told me to," Salem explained. "And I heard some gunfire and an explosion, so I went to take a look. There were, what, five or six Heinies just campin' out in the woods, havin' a grand ole time while Rios here was tied to a tree, freezing his ass off. So, get this fellas, I snuck around their camp and picked 'em off one by one. Nazi fucks didn't know what hit 'em. Last guy I finished off with my Tomahawk."

"Horse shit," Bennett interjected.

"It's true!" Salem whined.

"He's telling it how it was," Rios defended. "I'll vouch for him. Kid took out a whole squadron on German troops, and saved my ass from freezing to death. Wouldn't be here if you hadn't sent him out for recon."

"Yeah," Bennett snorted. "Recon."

Only Dudley snickered at the remark. Harris shook his head and tried ignoring them, while Darcy, unable to understand it in the first place, slurped at the canned peaches in his right hand while digging his left into the snow to ease the pain in his broken ring and pinkie fingers wrapped tightly in gauze.

An uncomfortable, transient smile flash across Salem's face, and he pulled his knees to his chest then wrapped his arms around his legs. Rios, feeling pity for the smaller man, pulled the ushanka from his bald head, and patted the too-large, furry hat over Salem's dark hair. The hat fell over his eyes, causing the big man to chuckle, and Salem pushed it back up properly on his head, a toothy grin spreading across his face.

"Alright," Bennett said, crushing his empty can, and tossing in behind him into the woods. "I'm hittin' the hay. Salem takes night watch."

"Night watch?" Rios asked. "As in all night?"

"Yeah," Bennett answered brusquely, laying back and and covering his eyes with his cap. "Kid's gotta pull his weight around here somehow."

"Pull his-"

"Tyse, don't," Salem muttered. "It's fine. I can do it."

Rios huffed, but refrained from arguing further, and watched with disdain as the others curled up in their sleeping packs, then eventually fell asleep.

"You need a place to sleep?" Salem asked. "You can take my spot by Harris."

"No, I'll stay up with you," Rios replied.

"You don't have to-"

"It's fine," Rios smiled. "I can do it."

Salem chuckled lightly, and shrugged, then pulled his rifle in his lap. "Whatever you say. Gonna be a long night."

By around midnight, Salem languished from lack of sleep, and nodded off on Rios' shoulder, rifle in hand. Rios sighed, and gently pulled the displaced ushanka off of the young man's head and onto the ground. He then eased Salem off of his shoulder and on his side, using the furry hat as a pillow to support his head.

The way Rios had seen the squad treat Salem in the few hours he had been there disturbed him. What disturbed him more was the way the younger man endured the abuse. In a place like this, no man could survive alone. A group was the only chance of survival, and Salem knew that. They all knew that. But Bennet and the others took advantage of that knowledge and used it against a young man too physically inept to fight back, and that sickened Rios to the core. He was tired of people like Bennett, and too many times had he faced men like him who used their position to gain control over those less powerful. Wasn't that what this whole war was over? A man taking advantage of the weak and using them for his own personal gain? With that logic, Bennett was no better than Adolph Hitler himself. Rios swore to himself that he wouldn't allow this exploitation to be done to the man that saved his life. There were going to be some changes around here. Bennett could count on that.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Wow, guys, sorry for the late post. Was not expecting that much school work last week. Thanks for all the support and patience, and please enjoy chapter 3.

At the break of dawn, Rios' eyes slowly fluttered open, squinting slightly to adjust to the soft morning light shining in patches through the thick wood into the clearing. He took a deep breath through his nose, feeling the frigid air sting his nostrils and the back of his throat, and stared blankly at the grey sky as he laid still on his back. A gently breeze rustled the pines encircling the glade, shaking the snow from their branches. To Rios, the subtle psithurism sounded like the forest was tenderly shushing him, attempting to coax him back to sleep. Briefly, an image of Samantha playfully putting her finger to her lips flashed across his mind. He could smell the smoke rising from the blackened, crackling sticks that fueled the previous night's bonfire, and hear faint sounds of wildlife through the soft snoring of the slumbering men around him.

Kneading his aching eyes, he slowly sat up, and rolled his shoulders, stretching. He flashed a faint smile at Salem, who was curled up in a ball on his side, his balled fist tucked under his chin, and the fur ushanka hat still beneath his head to serve as a pillow. Rios felt a bit solemn knowing he'd have to soon disturb the younger man's well deserved rest, but he didn't want Bennett waking up to find Salem hadn't followed his ridiculous order to keep watch all night. He thought it best to avoid conflict within this new group as long as possible. The Axis powers were already his enemies. He didn't need these four Allies as his enemies, too. But if the time came where any one of them raised their hand against Salem, they could count on Rios to raise his hand against them.

The big soldier leaned over, and with a gentle nudge to Salem's shoulder, stirred him from his sleep. The younger furrowed his brow as he languidly blinked into consciousness. He yawned silently, then sat up, arching his back to stretch as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Mornin'," he murmured, pulling his knees to his chest, and crossing his arms. "God, I hate mornings. It's like when I thought I couldn't get any colder..."

Rios nodded in agreement. "I could start a fire for you if you want."

"No point. When the others get up and movin', we'll be heading out."

"Heading out where, exactly?"

Salem shrugged. "Bennett says we gotta keep movin' northeast. It's on his map. Elser, Elder-something..."

"Elsenborn Ridge?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"We got a way to go, then," Rios said, tiredly eying the edge of the clearing to his right. "But I guess that's where we're needed. The Hitlerjugend will be after the supplies in neighboring cities, like Liège. It'll be our job to keep then from advancing past the ridge."

"The who?"

"Hitlerjugend. They're an elite division of SS."

"Oh."

"Didn't anyone tell you who we're fighting and why?"

"Probably," Salem said, shrugging again. "But I'm not real good with names, Tyler."

"That's not-"

"Jokin', Tyse."

Rios studied him with amusement, then dug into his left trouser pocket, pulling out a crumpled, folded square of worn paper, and tossing it to Salem. "Take a look."

The younger man snatched the map from the air, and carefully unfolded the fine paper to examine its jagged, colorful lines that marked their route. "So, we're gonna have to cross a river then? The Moose?"

"Meuse," Rios corrected. "Yeah, I figure it would be a lot faster and easier than maneuvering around the mountain ranges. The water should be frozen over enough for us to walk across."

Behind Salem, across the pile of scorched twigs, Harris gradually sat up from his tattered, wool blanket, grumbling quietly as he arched his fatigued spine. With crooked, rheumatic fingers, he scratched at the dark skin of his silvery-stubbled cheek and neck. His kind, droopy eyes wrinkled from the small smile he offered the two. "Mornin', fellas."

Salem nodded, flashing a toothy grin. "Mornin'.

The middle aged man clumsily got to his feet, wobbling slightly before steadying himself.

"You okay?" Salem asked.

"Yeah, kid. I'm fine," Harris grumbled, shuffling toward the thicket.

"Sure?"

"Kid, can I even take a piss in the woods without you talking to me like I'm a geezer? Ain't that old, you know."

"Just checkin', Harris."

"Yeah, yeah."

Rios chuckled at the exchange, watching the man hobble into the woods before speaking again. "You two are a lot alike, you know."

"What, me and Harris? How the hell d'you come up with that?"

"You both gotta prove you can do everything yourself."

Salem studied him, thinking over his words, then twitched the corner of his mouth into a small smile. "Well yeah, I guess we do. But only because everyone seems to think we can't."

Rios nodded slightly in agreement, again eying the edge of the glade thoughtfully. "Guess we don't have any more grub after last night, huh?"

"I got a little left," Harris called in a rough whisper as he returned from the thicket. "Been savin' my hard tack biscuits. Still have a couple you fellas can have."

"No, you should keep 'em," Salem said, watching the older dig through his work pack.

Rios could hear the disappointment in his voice, knowing the smaller man's advice to Harris to save the remaining food for himself was painful to say. In this desolate, harsh environment, all anyone could think about was food. The possibility of their next meal crossed their minds more than the hazard of enemy encounters. Hunger pangs constantly plagued them, reminding them their were numerous, slower ways to die in the Ardennes than by a bullet.

"Don't be stupid, kid," Harris snapped, tossing a round, flat biscuit to Salem, then Rios. "Gotta keep your strength up. Besides, the food's kinda yours anyway. You're the one that found it in the first place."

With slow reluctance, Salem snapped a piece of the crunchy bread between his teeth, his tired eyes becoming half-lidded from the pleasure of the meager breakfast. Rios tucked his away in his canvas rucksack, nodding thanks to Harris.

"Elliot told me you're an Army specialist."

"761st Tank Battalion," Harris answered after swallowing a bite of hard tack. "Got separated from my squad during a firefight in Versailles. Joined up with this lot around Metz, I think. Someplace on the border, anyway. You get separated too, or...?"

Rios shook his head solemnly. "No. Lost the last of my squadron the other night. That's when Elliot found me."

"And took out a whole group a Nazis," Harris added with a smirk.

"Well, I did," Salem muttered irately. "Really. Tyse can tell ya."

"Just messin' with ya, kid. I believe ya. Didn't think the Heinies just hand over their rations."

Salem grinned, then went back to nibbling his biscuit.

"Where are you two from?" Rios inquired.

"Springfield," Harris answered.

Salem wiped crumbs from his lip. "N'Orleans."

"Brooklyn, born and raised," Rios added. "Got any family waiting for you back home?"

Harris smiled slightly, thinking. "Georgiana, my wife. Our sixteenth anniversary's comin' up. March 22nd. And I got two little ones. Well, they're not so little now, I guess. My daughter, the oldest, just started her 11th year a school. She's a bright one, like her Momma... How 'bout you?"

"Yeah," Salem said. "Who's the dame in your wallet?"

Rios chuckled. "My fiancé, Samantha."

Salem's teasing grin became saddened, and he gazed down at the worn knees of his trousers. "Guess the war interrupted you two gettin' hitched, huh?"

"Yeah...What about you? Got a girl back in the states?" he said lightheartedly, attempting to lift the mood. "Fiancé, maybe?"

Salem snorted. "Yeah, right. That kinda mushy, lovey-dovey shit ain't for me. I like to get around, if you catch my drift."

"Oh," Rios nodded, failing to fight back an amused grin. "You're more of a skirt-chasing kinda guy."

"Don't get me wrong. I ain't no Drugstore Cowboy or nothin', but, yeah I'd say I'm on Active Duty."

Harris cackled loudly at that. "Kid, you're something."

"Ta Gueule," Darcy grumbled, lying on his side facing away from the three, still half-asleep. "Ou parlez ailleurs."

"Mornin' to you too, Frenchie," Harris replied.

Darcy growled, then clumsily got to his feet. He stomped across the clearing toward the woods, muttering angrily in French and scratching sleepily at the back of his blonde head.

"Must be hard on him," Salem said. "To not have anyone be able to understand what he's sayin'. Maybe we can teach him English."

"Doubt he'd want to learn another language in the middle of this goddamn mess," Harris added. "Would you have the patience to try to learn French out here?"

"I'd take a shot at it, yeah. Another language would come on handy."

"I could try teaching you Spanish," Rios suggested.

"Lotta good that would do out here," Salem chided. "But, yeah, alright."

Crunching leaves and snow alerted them to Darcy's return, and the three watched silently as the Frenchman shuffled into the glade, hugging his arms across his chest. He plopped down on his spread blanket, crossed his legs, then pulled out a small piece of jerky from his pocket to gnaw on for breakfast. Like the night before, he dug his thickly wrapped, broken fingers into the snow.

"Who bandaged his fingers?" Rios asked.

"Nobody," Salem answered. "He did it himself. After Bennett broke 'em, he didn't want any of us to go near him."

Rios shrugged. "Understandable, I guess. Someone should take a look at it, though. Make sure the bones are healing properly."

"You can take a crack at it," Harris said. "But don't be surprised if he knocks ya in the head or somethin'."

Rios shook his head, then grabbed his rucksack as he stood. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he ambled slowly toward Darcy, trying his best to not look intimidating. He greeted the Frenchman's warning glare with a small half smile, and knelt down on one knee in front of him.

"Can I see your hand?" he asked, twiddling his own ring and pinkie finger to help translate.

"Casse-toi," Darcy snapped.

Rios nodded, and pursed his lips, thinking over how to handle the man's hostility. He began rummaging through his sack, then pulled out his hard tack and a roll of white gauze from his small med kit. Snapping the biscuit in half, he offered it out to Darcy. The Frenchman furrowed his brow in confusion, then warily took the morsel of food, muttering, "Merci."

"De rein," the big soldier replied, grateful he remembered at least a few of the basic French phrases he learned in high school. He once again offered his open hand, wanting to examine the other's injury.

Darcy eyed him suspiciously as he chewed, then with great reluctance held out his wounded hand. Rios slowly unwrapped the filthy gauze binding the man's fingers, cringing slightly at the blue and purplish bruising around the middle phalanges. From what he could tell, the bones appeared straight, and he wouldn't need to set them back into place. Light crunching footsteps caught his ear, and he peered momentarily over his shoulder to see Salem standing over them, watching him work.

"Looks nasty," he said.

"Could be worse," Rios replied. "Could you find a couple short, kind of thin sticks for me? Something to use as a splint?"

"You got it. It'll only take a sec."

Salem jogged to the edge of the clearing, and within a few moments returned with a small handful of twigs. Rios plucked the two suitably sized sticks from his open palm, then went to work binding them against Darcy's fingers with the fresh gauze.

"There," Rios said, rolling up the left over bandage, and tucking it back in his rucksack. "Sorry I can't do more, but at least your fingers won't fall off."

Darcy examined the back and front of his hand, and nodded in thanks.

To their right, across the blackened fire pit, Bennett slowly sat up, rolling his head in a circle to stretch his neck. After arching his back, he got to his feet, and lightly kicked the back of Dudley's head, abruptly stirring the Englishman from his sleep.

"Pack your gear," Bennett grumbled, kneeling down to stuff his wool blanket into his rucksack. "We move out in ten."

Throughout the seemingly interminable trek, the men remained silent, focusing only on watching their surroundings, and putting one foot in front of the other on their gelid, unbeaten path. At the head of the group, Bennett plowed through the frosty thicket, every so often repositioning his army cap on his head, and checking his compass. Trudging behind him like an orderly line of ducklings were Dudley, Rios, Salem, Harris, then Darcy.

The snow's depth varied from a few inches to a few feet where the frigid wind blew falling flakes into sloping drifts, making every step a possible stumble. Rios couldn't help but peer back over his shoulder at the other three whenever a snapping twig or unusually loud crunch of snow caught his ear. He stole a glance at Salem, who kept his droopy gaze to the ground, and his gloved hands gripped around the straps of his rucksack. The younger man's breath billowed out in short puffs of fog through the ragged scarf wrapped over his nose and mouth, and the tomahawk holstered to his trench-coat's belt tapped against his thigh in rhythm with his stride, which followed along Rios' footprints.

"Regarde," Darcy said, nodding his head for Rios to turn and look.

The big soldier gave him a questioning look, but complied and returned his attention to the front. He caught sight of the edge of the forest, and white expanse of snowy fields squared off with black fence posts. Before that, of course, was the River Meuse, stretching across their path. The group stood silent momentarily, studying the grey slab of ice before them. Bennett plucked a stone about the size of his palm from the edge of the bank, and tossed it underhand out onto the frozen water, watching it as it bounced then slid to a stop halfway across the river.

"Looks good enough for me."

"Wait," Salem muttered, pulling down his scarf.

Bennett huffed. "What?"

"I don't think we should-"

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me. There's no other way, moron!"

"But, Bennet. There's slush on top, and the ice is grey. It's just not-"

"You got a better idea?" Bennett growled. "Think. The bridges and roads are probably crawlin' with SS. We got, what, six more clips? Even if we were stupid enough to try fightin' through, we don't have shit to eat for the trip there. So, before you open your trap, and waist my time with your bullshit-"

"Okay, that's enough," Rios interrupted. "Give him a break. He's got a point."

Bennett scoffed. "If you and him wanna go off and die in the woods, be my guest. But the rest of us are walkin' across that ice."

"I didn't say we weren't crossing," Rios snapped back. "But lay off the kid."

Bennett glared a long while at him, then shook his head in disgust. "Alright, smart guy. Do tell. What d'you have to say?"

Salem gulped, shifting uncomfortably on his booted feet. "Uh... We could tie ourselves together in case, you know, the ice breaks, and... We should stay kinda far apart when we walk."

Rios nodded reassuringly. "Sure. Sounds good."

Bennett rolled his eyes, and began stepping cautiously onto the ice. "Yeah, good luck with that. I'm not being dragged under water if one of you dumb asses falls in."

Dudley shrugged, and hitched his rifle over his shoulder before he too walked out onto the ice.

Rios removed his arms from the straps of his rucksack, then pulled out the length of braided rope stored inside. After tying a loop around one of his belt loops, and replacing his backpack around his shoulders, he offered the end of the five foot rope to Salem, whom he saw had already tethered himself to Harris.

"Darcy didn't have any rope," the younger explained, taking the end Rios offered, and tying it to the rope knotted to the handle of his rucksack . "So I figured he could have mine and that me and Harris could share."

"Just move slow, okay?" Rios warned. "Shorter distance between you two's gonna mean more weight in the ice."

"Don't gotta tell me twice," Harris grumbled. "I've been fightin' to keep up all blasted day."

With an affirmative nod from Darcy, who had linked himself behind Harris, Rios cautiously descended the small slope of the river's bank. He tested the ice's solidity by pressing his right foot ahead of him, and gradually applying his weight. Seeing it would hold him, he crept forward, repeatedly tapping his boot's heel on the frozen body of water before taking another step. Salem and Harris followed his lead, though slower in procession, keeping the rope's three foot length taut between them. When the two were a suitable distance away, Darcy skidded down the slope, stumbled slightly on the slushy surface, then quickly regained his footing. The ice groaned beneath him, and fine cracks branched out under his boots. The Frenchman swallowed anxiously, silently willing the ground to hold. With a shaky exhale, he shuffled forward with the others.

A fair distance ahead, Rios could see Bennett and Dudley shambling toward the river's edge. They, too, had evidently lost faith in the ice's integrity by the way they held their arms slightly extended from their bodies, as if to keep their balance. Disregarding them, Rios returned his focus to the frozen surface, which crunched softly with each slow step he took. He stole a quick glance at the ground left to cover, feeling relief wash over him when he judged it to be only about eight or nine more yards. Glimpsing over his shoulder, he studied the others, who held their gaze to the ground as they walked.

Creaking and crackling from the burdened ice made the group stop short. The men tensed, preparing for the worst. No one took a breath, fearing the smallest addition of weight would send them falling through the surface into the churning, near freezing river beneath the slush-glazed slab.

"Alright," Rios muttered. "Just take it slow."

"Son of a-!"

The distant shout startled the group, and they darted their eyes forward to see Dudley on his hands and knees, having slipped and jabbed his boot through the ground. The Englishman steadily got to his feet, cursing lowly as he pulled his sopping shoe from the jagged black hole he formed in the river's surface. He began limping slightly, the water already hardening around his foot and ankle.

"Con," Darcy grumbled, shuffling forward some to get a better view of the debacle.

Harris chuckled lightly. "Don't know what you said, Frenchie, but I probably agree wi-"

The ice snapped loudly, and swallowed the middle-aged man like a gelid leviathan. The rope wrenched Salem onto his back, and Darcy onto his stomach. Rios stumbled backward from the dead weight, scrambling to regain his balance. Dread swept over him driven by the sound of crunching ice and Salem's terrified screams for Harris assaulting his ears. He regained his footing, then spun around to see the man frantically trying to claw his way free, his left leg completely engulfed in the ice to his thigh. Rios grabbed Salem's underarms, and hauled him out of the river's grip. With one hand, he unsheathed the knife on his belt, about to slice the rope connecting him to the submerged man.

"No! No!" he screamed, ripping the weapon from Rios' hand, then driving it into the ice. Keeping a firm grip on the hilt, he shouted, "I got it! Get Harris!"

With a moment of hesitation, Rios released him, then shuffled swiftly around the crater to the other men's aid.

Gritting his teeth, Darcy dug his hands into the ice, struggling against Harris' weight and the churning current that threatened to drag him into the gaping abyss. He cold feel the cold biting his bones through his gloves, and the pressure on his broken fingers shot up like lightning through his forearm. Hands pulled up under his arms, lifting him off the ground. He felt an arm loop around his middle, then saw Rios' gloved hand take hold of the rope that led from Darcy's waist into the roiling, dark water. The Frenchmen prodded his boot against the ice to find stable ground, then kicked himself back with all his strength, helping Rios fight against the surging river that tugged Harris under the sheet of ice.

"Salem, I got 'em!" Rios shouted. "Cut the rope!"

Keeping his left hand gripped tightly to the knife's hilt, Salem pulled his hatchet from the sheath on his belt. He raised the weapon, then brought it down hard, burying the blade into the ice by his thigh, severing the rope. For a moment, he was frozen in terror, watching with widened eyes as Rios and Darcy hauled a gasping, sopping wet Harris from the river's cold grip. Rios' shouts to the older man snapped Salem from his stand still, prompting him to stand and hurry to the others. He slid down on his knees, holding his shaking hands over Harris, unsure of how to help. Harris' eyes were clenched shut, and he was shivering violently, holding his balled fists close to his chest. He mumbled quietly as Rios gently slapped his cheeks and asked simple questions, attempting to rouse him.

"We gotta get him off the ice, someplace dry," Rios said.

"What-what do I do?"

"Go ahead with Darcy and find a solid path for us. I'll carry him."

Salem nodded, trying to keep his head, then turned to follow Rios' order. The big soldier lifted Harris over his shoulder, and nodded for Darcy to join Salem. The Frenchman hesitated, at first unsure of the command, then complied, stomping his boot on the ice in search of the most solid track for them to take. Rolling his boots heal to toe across the ice, Rios kept a quick pace behind the other two. He followed along their chosen, slightly curved trail. The sound of crackling ice nearly concealed his hastened, shaky breaths, and water from Harris' dripping clothes began to seep through his shirt, stinging his shoulder and neck with biting cold.

Salem and Darcy practically leaped onto the river's snowy bank, and reached out over the frozen water to help Rios bring Harris onto solid ground. The man's body was rigid, his only movements being his hastened, labored breathing, and his constant shuddering. As Rios removed Harris' soaked coat, Salem threw his rifle off his shoulder, and the weapon sunk into the deep snow. He ripped the scarf from his neck, and the ushanka from his head, then tossed the items onto Harris' chest. With shaking, fearful hands, he quickly undid the belt around his waist, let it drop into the snow by his rifle, and yanked off his wool trench-coat, draping it over the freezing man. He stepped back, looking to Rios for instruction as he rubbed up and down his thin, grey long sleeves.

"We're gonna have to warm him up, build a fire," Rios said. "But we gotta find some cover, a clearing like the last one. Out here, we're exposed."

"We're can't just stop again," Bennett snapped. "We barely have the resources to get to Elsenborn now. Staying a night or two longer here, and we're either gonna be too fuckin' weak to keep movin', or some SS fucks're gonna pick us off. Besides, he ain't gonna make it anyway."

"Shut up!" Salem screamed, charging and raising his fist.

Bennett ripped the Walther P38 from his hip holster, and pointed it at Salem's forehead, making the younger freeze. "Try somethin'. No, really. I've been fuckin' praying' for a chance to get you outta my hair."

"Woah, take it easy!" Rios barked, still on his knees holding Harris. "Salem, Elliot. We need to find a safe place to warm him up. Can you do that?"

Salem slowly backed away, glaring up at Bennett as he did so. With a quick glance at the shivering man, he turned and jogged as fast as he could through the thick snow toward the trees. Seeing he was out of earshot, Rios glowered up at Bennett, and shook his head in disgust. "We're not leaving him."

"Then we're leaving you," Bennett growled back. "But if you were smart, you'd ditch both of 'em."

"You can't just-"

"I can, and I will. I'm not letting myself or anyone else get killed because one can't keep up. Learned that the hard way with Elliot."

Rios furrowed his brow, confused by the remark, but remained motionless. With a scoff, Bennett adjusted his pack over his shoulders, and turned to walk away. Dudley, who had remained silent and rigid through the entire exchange, briefly met Rios' gaze with solemn, apologetic eyes before wordlessly trudging after Bennett, his head to the ground.

"Darcy!" Bennett called sharply.

The Frenchman hesitantly darted his eyes from Rios to the others, pursing his lips. With a sigh, he rummaged through his coat pocket, then knelt down on one knee in front of Rios and Harris. Darcy took the big soldier's hand, and turned up his open palm to give the contents from his coat. Rios felt cold metal touch his skin, and looked down to see three golden rifle cartridges, half of Darcy's remaining ammunition.

"Je suis désolé," Darcy muttered, keeping his head down in shame. "Mais ils ont tous la nourriture et de munitions."

The Frenchman stood, still not able to meet Rios' eyes. "Prenez garde."

He turned, and slogged toward the the other two, who were now a fair distance away, already having jumped one of the black fences dividing up the gently sloping field.

Rios silent watched them grow smaller and smaller on the brilliantly white horizon, wondering if the three bullets Darcy gave him were meant for their defense or demise.


End file.
